#the deep.

' pffffffyeah, 'course i do, what kinda dumb question is that? ' louder for the normie ears in the back, ' i have faith in homelander. '

check, mate.

the smile aptly fixated across the deep's face drops like a hot potato. for a second, all he does is stare at the plushie in travis' possession.

nemo. of course it's fucking nemo. the g.o.a.t of all clownfish.

his shoulders tense beneath the green wetsuit, mouth pulling into a thin line as several emotions wage war across his face simultaneously. offense, embarrassment, genuine sadness, even the furrowing his eyebrows to cook up a lie. instead, he lands on obvious vexation with a hint of embarrassment. [evident by the brush of pink across his cheeks.]

'okay. first of all, that's really insensitive.' his right index finger lifts, pointing accusingly at nemo. 'secondly, she wasn't even a clownfish. she was an octopus. get it right, bro.' a pause / another pause. 'thirdly, she wasn't even my girlfriend. not officially, anyway.' which somehow makes all of this sound even worse than it already did.

deep's eyes remain still on the toy, the expression in his eyes growing increasingly wounded the longer he looks at it. it's like seeing a ghost. a tiny, orange, mass-produced ghost with embroidered eyes. god, he misses her. misses all of them in the ocean. the fish, the dolphins, even the sea cucumbers.

holey shit, she just looked at me. wait, that's his bad side. play it cool, your posideon. she's just ariel. she's got no idea.

' you should come on my podcast. '

the post-homelander’s-orders-fuck-up munchies are catching up, but don’t think so. he’s not getting caught red-handed on camera stuffing his face with........ azerbaijani. his rainier collab = down the toilet. he worked the co-distributor’s wife hard as fuck for it. she was sliding on him like a split mussel.

' did you know small businesses are a front for deep-state fraud? yo, check my face. '